talesfromtinytonka

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 13 - Oneirophrenia - The Meeting

(Author's notes - Shadowbringer's spoilers maybe????)

The door pushed open slowly as the small Loporrit bounced his way inside, humming a nervous tune. The rabbit-like creature was dreadfully late to attend, but with good reason. A representative from a race of moon dwellers couldn’t exactly just catch any airship over, after all, and his size made it considerably easy to be squished once on Hydaelyn’s solid soil. The small Loporrit, adorned in robes of vibrant purple with blue accents, knew not the reason he was called here. He knew only that he would needs act as a representative for his far away people on a matter described as “most urgent”.

Walking into the room, the Loporrit was surprised to see a number of other creatures in attendance, each dressed rather spectacularly in ways the creature had never seen before. To his left floated some balls of fluff as white as cotton, their similarly small bodies covered in some form of black suits, their eyes hidden beneath their fur and the large, multicolored balls of light that swayed to and fro above their heads. They hovered around a particular creature nearly 10 times the size of them, generously large and adorned with a black tuft of a moustache. One of the creatures immediately floated over to the Loporrit. “Over here, kupo. You’re late! Ahh….but we’ll go easy on you this once. It’s no ordinary occasion one gets to meet the Mogfather…come and look upon him in glory and pay your respects, kupo…” The creature picked the Loporrit up by the back of his robes, bringing him up onto the table and closer to this “Mog-father” who stared down upon him and smiled. The creature talked slow and deep. “Pickingway, was it?...we’ve invited you here to become acquainted with our little crew, seeing as you Loporrit are the new kids on the block, kupo. Me? I’m the mogfather…the one and only… and I represent my fellow Moogles. You may have heard of us before on the streets…the original mascots. Fought real hard to push back the Tonberry and Chocobo turf… respect’s our language, kid, and I aim to see if you follow, kupeesh?”

As the Mogfather finished speaking, he lowered his head down to the table, his massive pom laying out in front of Pickingway. “The Mogfather courts respect! You will oblige him by kissing the pom, kupo!” one of the Moogles yelled. The Loporrit looked over at it and then back to the Mogfather, not understanding even a single word outside of his name that was just spoken. Pickingway looked up at the massive creature nervously, cracking a buck toothed smile as it hummed to itself. The Moogles floated backwards in ghastly fear as the small rabbit-like being before them seemingly refused to do their bidding. Before one among them could complain, however, the roar of laugher across the table rang out. Pickingway turned to the opposite side of the table and saw something quite fishy…a group of catfish, to be exact! Their whiskers swayed with a film of watery slime as they continued to laugh at the interaction, the bells on their strangely small vests ringing as they stared goggle eyed at the Loporrit. “The creature doesn’t want to get a fur ball, it seems! He’s already chosen OUR way of doing things, yes yes!” The Mogfather sat upright, looking quite annoyed. “I did not come on this, the day of free kupo nuts, to be insulted by a barrel of Namazu.” One of these Namazu flopped up on the table, retrieving Pickingway and bringing him over to sit before their leader: a particularly scarred looking Namazu, a large tuft of fake hair styled in a long pompadour glued upon its head and the stem of a chewed leek jutting out of the side of its mouth like a toothpick. “Break the rules, I say! Moogles are old, yes yes! Old and barely adored! We Namazu are the true stars of the show! Stick with us and I’ll show you how to be a creature so beloved you’ll be the mascot of TWO adventures, yes yes! Right next to us Namazu!”

Pickingway turned his head, confused. He totally didn’t understand a single thing the creature had said, yet he was curious: he had heard that fish were required to be underwater, so why not this one? The silence the Loporrit left in the room was enough for the Namazu to lose his cool, gritting his teeth and furrowing his gelatinous looking fishy brow. “Oh, I see how it is…. We invite you to give you some good advice and this is how you repay us, yes yes? Maybe you don’t think us Namazu have the ability to party all night!? Floats in our image! Houses taller than any Moogles! You’d do well not to write us off, no no!” Pickingway was becoming decidedly more exhausted by the strange words coming out of the creatures mouths, and so he happened to turn his face towards the creatures that were sitting between the Namazu and the Moogles. Pickingways eyes immediately met the large, unblinking ones of a Paissa. The furry, wild looking creature stared motionless as the Loporrit, its eyes searing into Pickingways like two diabolical suns. Pickingway liked this one the most so far, as it seemed to make no attempt at speaking to it in strange tongues. Pickingway stared back at the Paissa happily, who tilted its head ever so slightly, its eyes unflinching. The Paissa and the Loporrit continued to stare at each other for an uncomfortably long amount of time, the Paissa beginning to shake ever so slightly as the Mogfather spoke in Pickingway’s direction. “Pay him no mind. He was barely even a mascot in his own adventure, kupo. They had to put a counterpart of him in another world to even get people to notice, ha ha!” The Moogles and Namazu both erupted in laughter as the creature continued to stare ominously at Pickingway.

Suddenly, an ungodly screech came from the far right side of the table, and the laughter soon gave way to panic. “WOAH! Th-there’s no need for that kind of language! W-we were just getting to you, yes yes!” The Namazu shook in their seats like freshly flopping fish and the Moogles hid behind their grand sized leader. Pickingway turned to look at the creature that made the noise, only to find a series of striped worms sitting on the farthest right edge of the table, their leader wearing tufts of sharply pointed hair in some sort of war-hawk formation. The worm squirmed up to the Loporrit, looking him over as it squished and gyrated, swirling around him. “Scree!” Pickingway didn’t know how to respond, but the others certainly seemed to as a Moogle came over to separate the two of them, his tiny hands trying to hold the worm back. “E-easy, k-kupo! He’s not just some fresh meat for you to play w-with!” The strange worm seemed hard to contain, the Moogle losing his grip only for the creature to knock forward and get up in Pickingway’s face once again. Pickingway waved curiously at the creature, but this only seemed to anger it further. Soon the room was filled with its screes as two Moogles and a Namazu struggled to restrain it back in its seat. “Your concerns are noted, great serpent, but I doubt you’ll find our moon-bound friend here anywhere near your turf, kupeesh?

Having become acquainted with all the different parties of this rag-tag band of creatures, the Namazu turned once more to Pickingway. “Well….now that you’ve met us, it’s time to choose! Which one of our little groups here you intend on letting take you under their wing! Now I might be biased, but…surely you’d rather come party with us Namazu over a buncha stuffy moogles or bloodthirsty serpents, yes yes?” Pickingway stared at each party present at the table, his eyes once again fixed upon the Paissa, now seemingly brandishing a knife of unknown origin, who licked the blade slowly as he stared directly into the Loporrit’s eyes once more, trembling. “Think about it, kid. What goods a party that only lasts a few years? What you want is a legacy, kupo. You want to stand the test of time, and that means you gotta float with the best. Kupeesh?” Pickingway didn’t understand the Mogfathers words, but understood their intention. It seemed the creatures wanted Pickingway to pick one of them; perhaps the one he liked the most? Pickingway looked among the group once more before bringing a small fur covered hand up to point at the Paissa. The Paissa, seemingly believing it was a threat, could contain his fury no longer: the creature hopped up on the table and slammed the knife into the table, shaking violently and jumping up and down as it pointed and stared at the Loporrit, skittering off an incomprehensible slurry of sounds. Pickingway fell backwards, wide eyed and confused at what was going on.

The Namazu side of the table bolted upright, clubs at the ready. “What the..!? You’re seriously picking a Paissa over us?! You know we’re the best, yes yes! Everyone loves us, you little space rat!” The Mogfather shouted over them, seemingly taking offense to their claims. “Says who, kupo!? You’r a floppy bunch two weeks late to the fryer! Don’t make me sick my boy Kuppy on you, you’ll be sleeping with the fishes more than you already do!” Things were getting even more heated as the Moogles started to pull out miniature cap guns, blasting them in the direction of the club wielding Namazu and corking a few into submission. The Namazu descended upon that side of the table, knocking over fine glasses of vinate kuponoit as they smacked a couple of Moogles down to the ground. “SCREE! SCREE!” The group of worm-serpents chanted as they ran over to take part in the violent scuffle. “N-no! Stop! How was I supposed to know he couldn’t understand us!? His name is Pickingway, yes yes! He is the one that must pick! Noooarrghhh!” Pickingway watched in horror as the serpents devoured the Namazu like so many others of the Greatwoods. “THAT’S ENOUGH, KUPO!” The Mogfather stood up, declaring defiantly. “THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY TO SETTLE THESE MATTERS, A GOOD OLD FASHIONED FLEX-OFF, KUPEESH?”

Suddenly, the Mogfather threw off his coat of thick, fluffy fur, revealing a curled form of peak muscular perfection! The Moogle stood as tall as any Roegadyn; his body seemingly chiseled from pure marble, oily and defined. He struck a pose, holding his biceps as he looked over to the Namazu leader. “Oh, yes yes, two can play these games!” The leader of the Namazu flipped up his pompadour and threw off his vest, revealing himself to also be of similar height and build, his body smooth as polished granite. He struck a quarter-turn, flexing his absolutely shredded sides. The two performed an onslaught of flexing and poses that would surely have blinded the Loporrit were he not suddenly wearing a pair of shades as striking the ones worn by none other than Nero tol Scaeva. The Paissa continued to shake more and more violently as he jumped and screamed between them, looking at their musclebound forms as he screeched and stared. Suddenly, the creature began to grow taller and bigger, right before Pickingway’s very eyes. The creature broke through the ceiling of the building they were in, people screaming to get away as the creature revealed its true form: a size and build that could be rivaled only by the most perfect summoning of Titan in his true form. The creature turned its massive back to the pathetic bodybuildings and Loporrit beneath it, flexing his back as Allagan symbols floated on the wind and circled him, the glow of their rainbow colored lighting charging a laser. Pickingway thought he heard the voice of someone as he closed his eyes, prepared to meet his doom. As he felt the firing of a Dalamud-sized cannon aiming at his face, the voice seemed to get louder. “hey…Hey…”

“Hey!”

The Warrior of Light shook himself awake. The events of his thought filled dreaming coming to a halt as he stared into the darkness of the Ala Mhigan skies. He looked up to what was once the source of the laser: the moon hung high in the sky, its body full and revealed amongst the heavens. He rubbed his eyes painfully, the bags under them burning in irritation as he turned to the source of the voice: that of his friend Alphinaud, who looked upon him with worry. “I had Urianger check with the Astrologians at the observatorium…the readings are quite precise, friend. You really needn’t fear its approach so…” The Warrior of Light recomposed himself as he thought to what had just happened. “Was it a dream? It has been a while since I’ve slept, hasn’t it…” It had been four days, in fact, though the man did not wish to admit it to his companion. The Warrior of Light wiped his face of sweat and shrugged, shaking his head in disapproval to the Elezen. “I know it’s hard to distract yourself from what’s to come…or to what you’ve seen coming…but you needn’t worry alone for the world’s sake. Every hero needs their rest.” Alphinaud gave the man a small smile before climbing back down from the roof of the Inn, already knowing his friend to be a man both stubborn and silent. Alone once more, the Warrior of Light sighed in acceptance of the truth of Alphinaud’s words. As he laid down upon the rough tile of the roof, the man couldn’t help but look up to the moon once more, watching its light bleed down upon him as he drifted off to a much more uneventful rest.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 11 - Preaching to the Choir - New Coat

(Author's Note: Stormblood Spoilers)

What wolf seeks,

in places no one speaks;

where death’s encroachment leaks,

and no hunter’s hunted peeks?

Surely a wolf of reasons dark,

made manifest from seasons stark;

and twenty souls beyond him hark

unto his howl to be the spark.

The wolf stirring through fire’s maim,

ever burned by memory’s shame;

posed self-doubts with self-blame

putting future paths in twain.

How fitting now; the wolf upon The Burn,

from fires high and hot did learn

how coats from black to grey can turn

to greet causes that once-prey did yearn.

Were they here to see it now,

would it be something they’d allow,

and would they stop to consider how

black wolf turned grey could keep its vow?

Perhaps they’d call the wolf a fool;

or liken him to a villain’s tool.

For knowing not the fiends so cruel;

Enacting will through their misrule.

For it was then, among the ash;

upon betrayal’s final thrash.

Where once-thought savage prey did clash

that truer threats did make their splash.

The wolf transformed, with prey anew,

though late, shared with old foes one view;

and though his trophies were but few,

each cracked mask proved his faith had grew.

The wolf bared fangs again with skill

to catch his prey and prove his will;

to end the rose’s blackened spill

that left its wake unbearably still.

For in this land, it told a fate

Of what more roses could await,

And of the silence, bleak and great

Should wolf and savage be too late.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 10 - Heady - Overboard

(Author's Note: Zadnor/Blades spoilers, some minor Stormblood Spoilers)

Gerolt turned in his sleep as the sounds of an albatross’s call rang high in the sky above him. The blacksmith grumbled and turned in his sleep, the sharply bright sun hitting his darkened face with the intensity of a busy forge. The man had not known the weather in Gangos to be this inhospitable since his arrival at the resistance’s camp, and he certainly was in no mood for it after last night’s celebration. Gerolt turned in place, the swaying of the sands around him making his stomach churn as the man fought for an onze of comfort for his rest. It was not long before he emerged from the battle defeated, his desire to sleep overcome by his annoyance of the conditions he found himself in. The blacksmith sat up shakily, his eyes burning like coals as his vision weakly attempted to merge his double vision down to a single focused point, the man letting out a groan of exhaustion. In his haze, Gerolt attempted to turn and call out to the particularly unremarkable Hrothgar he shared his workstation with. “What was the name again?...Zurvan?....Zadnor? Somethin’ with a Z…” Gerolt thought awkwardly on his companions name before trying to play it cool. “Uh…Z, what the ‘ells going on with the weather this morning?!”

Gerolt waited for the telltale disappointing sighs of his companion, as well as an explanation, but neither seemed to come. The camp sounded oddly quiet, Gerolt thought, as the usual bustle of the crowd seemed to be replaced almost wholly with the rhythmic sounds of ocean waves. Gerolt smeared his black gloves into his eyelids, his skull pounding in cadence with the waves. “Bleedin’ hells…did I really drink enough to warrant this kind of treatment?” Gerolt waited for his body to calm a bit, his eyes adjusting to the rough texture of his gloves before he allowed his hand to move from his face. Gerolt let out a scream of a curse as he finally gained enough sense to look around him: there was no Hrothgar near him. There was nothing at all near him, in fact, save the endless sights of ocean water for malms ahead. Gerolt looked down and found the shifting, wobbling sands beneath him to be naught but a dearly beat-up boat, containing little but his tools and a rather weathered looking rolled up parchment. As Gerolt tried to make sense of his circumstance, he pulled the parchment from its lodged place between the planks of weathered wood and unfurled it. The parchment contained a simple sentence, written in both the languages of Eorzean and what Gerolt presumed to be Hingan. “May you rot in the sea, drink-thief!”

The words dislodged a cloudy memory from Gerolt’s mind, reminding him of the night before. It was at the height of the celebrations of the imperial retreat that Gerolt found his casks and mugs empty. The camp, despite all its joyous excitement, knew the blacksmith for the errant drunkard he was; not one among them providing him a cup from their own reserves. Gerolt was hell-bent on getting a well-deserved drink, however, regardless of where it came from. It was for that reason that the man had found himself snuck onboard a docked ship carrying goods at the makeshift Gangos port, the crew busy far too negligent of their precious offerings left just under the deck. The boxes of wines and casks of aged ale, Gerolt thought, would be easily paid off by the resistance with the resources reclaimed from their hard-earned victory. Gerolt quickly got to work upon the many offerings of the hull, and as his memory ended in fuzziness, the man certainly had an idea of how it would have lead him to the situation he now found himself in. As Gerolt contemplated his next move, the shaky planks of wood beneath him began to let out a dismaying groan, water moving a little too quickly between their cracks with each passing wave of the ocean.

Gerolt surveyed his surroundings once more with increasing worry. Beyond the cloudy skies of the sea, the blacksmith believed he could spot a few notable landmarks of which he had never seen before. Far ahead of him seemed to rise a treacherous looking volcano, the muted glow of lava and smoke rising from its inner reaches into the cloudy skies above. Behind him, he saw some strange structure rising high into the sky; a tower of thick, stone-like boxes, stacked like links in a chain. In both directions Gerolt could not make out the sight of ground beneath them, guessing that their distance was still a far bit too long for the blacksmith to make it by swimming. The man quickly found himself without options, however, as his turning and moving on the boat seemed to quicken its deterioration to the point where water was irreparably permeating the interior. Gerolt looked nervously to the depths of the sea beneath him before throwing caution to the wind and jumping off the sinking boat, opting to swim for as long as he could in the direction of the volcano. The waves were much more fearsome than they had appeared on the boat, each one rolling over the blacksmith and sending him further back from his target as he struggled to move his sluggish body in a way that would at least mimic a decent swimming pattern.

The man was fighting a battle he knew he would lose, and he expected to lose it quick. He felt already a great deal dehydrated from his escapades the night before, and the burning of the sun and salty water had seen to it that his sleep had been abruptly interrupted before it could replenish him any strength for the task ahead. Gerolt swam with the grace of a wounded goobbue, his heavy body struggling to remain above water as his arms began to cramp from overexertion. He had not even managed to catch sight of the base of the volcano when his arms fully gave out, forcing him to pedal in the place in a meager attempt to keep his head above water. “This is it, then.”Gerolt thought. “s’ finally come to this…my drinkin’s finally taken me to my grave.” Gerolt’s legs lost paddling speed as he looked back to his many fumbles and accomplishments in his life: the many things he had crafted and had yet to craft, as well as the many wrongs he had wished to right before his time had come. As Gerolt felt himself sink into the warm blue depths of the sea water, his thoughts turned to his friends, the Warrior of Light, and not least of all to the one he had loved so dearly. “Guess I’m not payin’ that debt off after all…goodbye, Rowena…” Gerolt felt a strange calmness overtake him as he took solace in his fate, allowing himself to sink to the depths below.

When Gerolt had awoken again, he had thought himself to be in some strange resemblance of an afterlife. All around him were the beautiful lights and colors of the sea, the ground beneath him made of sand and stone. He appeared to be in a bubble of some sort, the air completely breathable to him despite the bubble being clearly under the sea he had nearly perished in. Gerolt looked around the dome to find a number of turtle like people living out their lives. The man thought back upon his meeting of such individuals on his way to Gangos, recalling that they called themselves the Kojin. Gerolt sat in breathless amazement at the sight of it all as a particularly official looking Kojin noticed the blacksmith’s consciousness, walking over to him. “It is good to see that you are well, friend. The currents would have carried you even further out were it not for the grace of the Kami. You are safe here, in Tamamizu.” Gerolt turned to the Kojin, taken somewhat aback by the gracefulness of his words as he felt his waterlogged glove rub the back of his bald head. “I thought for sure I was a goner…don’t know how I’m gonna’ repay you for that...thanks.” The Kojin let out a laugh as he kneeled down next to the man. “There’s no need to worry, friend…though I do have a question for you. Your name wouldn’t happen to be Gerolt, would it?” Gerolt looked to the man, surprised to hear his name as a creeping feeling of worry set in his heart.

Gerolt soon learned that the Kojin here had recognized him by his tattoo. His name, he discovered, was synonymous with a particular warrior of “unrivaled strength” who carried a weapon the Kojin regarded as a sacred relic in its own right. Gerolt couldn’t help but let out a grin as he learned of the Warrior of Light’s open commendations of his work. The Kojin were keen-eyed artisans in their own right, collecting heirlooms and trinkets as an important part of their beliefs, and Gerolt could certainly respect that. As the Kojin Gerolt now knew to be named Kabuto spoke with him deeply of the arts of craftsmanship, the man posed a question to the blacksmith. “You need not feel obligated, Gerolt…but would you consider donating a piece of your work to us? Surely the Kami would look upon an offering of yours with delight.” Gerolt seemed surprised to hear the Kojin ask so forwardly. “Yer too kind to an old drunkard like me…the praise ‘n all is appreciated, but do the Kojin really need a weapon like the Warrior of Light’s? It’s a dangerous thing to have…not t’ mention hard to acquire the materials for.” Kabuto shook his head. “We would be beyond honored to have a weapon of yours, Master Gerolt, but it wasn’t what I had in mind...our mutual friend says you’re as adapted at kettles as you are at arms…is that true?” Gerolt stared at the Kojin wide eyed before cracking a laughing grin. “A kettle? That damned’ man…yes, of course I can craft you a Kettle! The best bleedin’ kettle you’ve ever had, no problem at all!”

Gerolt quickly got to work for the Kojin, seeking to repay their rescue of him and their encouraging praise. “Feel’s good to work on somethin’ fer someone that appreciates me, fer once.” As the blacksmith took to the task, he discovered that the Kojin were quite an agreeable bunch by his standards. Aside from their access to all sorts of unique and strange materials from the sea and trade, they seemed to enjoy the revelry of drink and part as much as he did. His first kettle was met with intense appreciation and praise from the people of Tamamizu, who thought so highly of it that it soon found its place beyond the talisman-covered barrier of their shrine. Gerolt didn’t stop there, though, as he soon found that kettles were an object critically missing from the everyday life of the Kojin that lived down here. Gerolt made custom ones for their use, simple in appearance but effective at boiling tea water even in the damp conditions of the underwater city. The Kojin in turn lavished him in exotic wines and alcohols from Kugane, Doma, and even places further beyond such as Nagxia and Bukyo. “I could get used to livin’ in a place like this.” Gerolt thought, feeling truly accepted and appreciated for once in quite a while. The Kojin seemed to be of like minds to him, Kabuto offering such a proposition upon the unveiling of his fourth kettle to the settlement. “You are a gift to all of Tamamizu, friend. I can see now why the Warrior of Light spoke so highly of you…would you consider staying here for a time? There is no lack of unusual goods coming here for you to inspect and use in your work, and we would gladly have more in our shrine if you would do us the honor...”

“I’m afraid he can’t accept that offer, Kabuto.” Gerolt turned to the crude sounding voice, confused. Its owner appeared to be a rather plainly dressed Lalafell, a book and quill in hand as she walked forward into the gathering of Kojin near the blacksmith. Gerolt grew wide eyed as he considered what a Lalafell would possibly be doing down here. “Gods, don’t tell me…” Gerolt watched as the Lalafell approached and looked in his direction, grinning. “Master Gerolt Blackthorn, in the flesh…. I’d heard you were washed up, but I fear this is taking it to another level entirely. Do you know how long Rowena and the others have been searching for you? Long enough to send out an order to the entire House of Splendors.” Gerolt felt a lump grow in his throat as he tried to swallow nervously and form a response. “Y’see, there’s a good explanation-“ The Lalafell let out a tsk sound as she interrupted him, turning to Kabuto. “I’m afraid his expertise is needed elsewhere. There’s a resistance that still needs his skills, and a debt he still owes to the House…could you please prepare a striped ray to take him back to Kugane? We’ll just put the cost of travel on his tab…” Kabuto looked between the two of them curiously before nodding, turning back to Gerolt. “It has been a pleasure, friend. You are welcome any time.” The blacksmith considered begging the Kojin to intervene, a thought that had apparent crossed the Lalafell’s mind as she gripped his arm tightly and pulled him away from the Kojin and back towards his friends—and ever growing debt—that awaited him on the surface.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 9 - Friable - The Gathering Storm

E’tateke waited among the countless other gatherers of The Mendicant’s Court, hatchet nervously gripped in her hand as she eyed her competition. She had missed the last calling by the mission commander, she thought, and though it was all for a good cause she could feel her competitive side growl in anticipation as she recognized the faces of some dear rivals among the crowd. Her grip upon the handle of her tool tightened further as she watched Aurvael’s familiar face walk to the booth, a bundled roll of what she presumed to be the new flight coordinates in hand. This seemed to grab the attention of the crowd as the rabbled sounds of the court grew silent in respect of the man. Aurvael looked upon the crowd with a measured nervousness as he cleared his throat, addressing them. “May I have your attention, everyone? I have just received word of a new series of islands that have appeared in the Diadem. We will be embarking shortly if any among you wish to joi-“

No sooner did the words come from his mouth than the crowd spilled out from the front of the booth like a wave, miners and botanists and fishers alike all rushing like a stampede for the airship landing. E’tateke ran among them, her tail narrowly avoiding the fury of the feet behind her as she tried to weave in and out of the crowd to make it on the first ship out. She was certain that she could feel the squishy forms of some unfortunate Lalafell under her feet as she ran, hoping that the recently built Ser Vaindreau’s Grace could accommodate the poor souls once the chaos cleared. E’tateke soon found herself nearing the head of the crowd, and as she ran down the stone steps to the airship landing she saw that the first ship was already beginning to fill to capacity. The Miqo’te pulled out the handle of her scythe and used it to trip a few in front of her, gaining the necessary advantage to land herself one of the final places on the airship as its crew looked out with sweaty horror. As the ship began to take off, a lone and impatient Roegadyn thought to leap up on deck of the moving vehicle, only to find his chest firmly bounced off the work boots of no less than three miners on board.

E’tateke breathed a sigh of relief as the ship departed in earnest for the Diadem. As the sights of Ishgard disappeared underneath the winter filled clouds, the Miqo’te wondered to herself whether it was such a good idea for the Firmament to develop a ranking system for its contributors. Adventurers were a competitive bunch after all, she thought, and surely the damage to the Diadem’s ecology—as unnatural as it likely was—wasn’t worth the building of a few extra structures in the city. She shrugged in response to her inner reason as she recalled the number of wonderful mounts and Ironworks outfits that she would soon be able to afford with the results of her gathering frenzy, not to mention the admiration of her peers. The clouds grew lighter as the ship traveled far above the upper reaches of Abalathia’s Spine, the islands now in view to only the longest necked Elezen among the ship. E’tateke pulled out a pair of binoculars she kept on hand and surveyed the islands as they gradually approached: they seemed almost peaceful, though they wouldn’t be for much longer, and thankfully it truly did appear that they were the first to arrive. The Lalafells onboard jumped and giggled with joy as the Viera tied their ears back to avoid the harsh winds, each gatherer in attendance readying their tools and tinctures for the frenzy ahead. E’tateke waited for the ship to get a little closer to one of the islands before leaping off the deck of the airship, the concerned yells of the Skysteel engineers disappearing in the whipping winds as she landed upon the uneven rock with feline grace. With hatchet in hand she ran up to the nearest tree she could find: a pathetically petrified lump of wood jutting out of the unnatural rocky ground beneath her. E’tateke channeled her inner adventurer spirit and slammed her axe into the base of the trunk, breaking through the limits of her power—and no doubt a few codes of botanist etiquette that Fufucha would disapprove of—to fell the tree in a single blow. The trunk exploded into a cascade of lumber and crystals that E’tateke scooped into her bag with the intensity of an all-you-can-eat buffet at the gold saucer.

The hunt was upon the Diadem now, and E’tateke knew the islands would only withstand the fury of their gathering for a short time. She pulled her hatchet back into her hands as she ran to the next target in her sights, a bush of questionable growth given the inhospitable conditions of the island. She imagined it to be an imperial commander as she hacked at it furiously, some small wildlife fleeing from it as she collected its trimmings. Seeing no other foliage on the island, she thrust herself into a nearby dervish of wind and flew upon the air to a much larger land formation in the distance. She was not alone on this one, she could see, as a Hrothgar botanist was hard at work felling the largest tree on the island. E’tateke knew the materials of such a tree would be vital for her to regain her position after missing the previous voyage, and as she weighed her options she spotted a series of fishers just sitting down to begin their boring task. “Anything good enough to catch a pterodactyl should be good enough to pull a tree.”, E’tateke thought as she grabbed the rod from an Elezen’s hands. The Miqo’te ignored the cursing of its owner as she waited for the Hrothgar to bring the tree to its felling point, casting the line high upon its branches and tugging hard. The tree, much to E’tateke’s excitement, changed course and fell promptly upon the foolish botanist who noticed its diverted path all too late. As she made a mad grab and dash for the resources off the dazed Hrothgar’s body, she left him with a word of advice. “Maybe wear a helmet next time, amateur.”

E’tateke cleared the island while her would-be competitor napped off the head injury, promptly making her way to the next set of stony landmasses before her. The miners were out in full force in this part of the Diadem, it seemed, as she was greeted with the rhythmic swings of pickaxes and hammers against stone. As the Miqo’te relieved the area of any local flora, she overheard the chatting of two Roegadyn pounding away at a vein of ore. “You ever feel like we’re just going ‘round in circles, Blynkrepf?” His gruff companion responded, unamused. “We are, you bleedin’ idiot. If you put that brainpower into those swings of yers we’d be done already.” E’tateke snickered to herself as she threw out a full pizza from her knapsack to make room for some more materials, moving on. Eventually, E’tateke arrived to an island that seemed suspiciously devoid of gatherers. “It’s quiet…too quiet.” She thought to herself, making her way over to a series of bushes. As the Miqo’te prepped her first swing, the barrel end of an Aetheromatic Auger pushed itself out from the center of the bush and pointed itself in her direction. E’tateke stepped back as she watched a gang of ruthless Lalafell make their way out of the bushes and surround her, two of them carrying no less than ten dozen small frogs in their tiny arms each. “Hand over the frogs, miss. It’d be a shame if your contributions were cut short by a trip to the infirmary ‘n Ishgard.” E’tateke knew the type of tremendous danger the compressed aether of the Augur possessed, and so she begrudgingly relinquished control of her share of the amphibious creatures. The Lalafells took each and every one of the frogs from her knapsack before slinking back into the hidden depths of the bushes once more, a sign that the Miqo’te was free to leave and gather once more. E’tateke let out an exasperated sigh as she vowed to never let anyone back home know what had just occurred. She knew that she would need to stay focused to make up for the loss in resources, and so she recomposed herself and set out for the next few islands, avoiding other gatherers as much as possible as she uprooted and sliced through the fragile foliage for what resources remained.

It near the end of her second pass through of the islands when she felt the telltale rumbling of the rocky ground beneath her signal the end of the voyage. With every fiber of natural life pulled from the stone and every valuable ore peeled from its veins the islands were beginning to lose structural integrity. E’tateke knew the islands would remain steady for precious little time, their underbellies of crystalized aether being tapped to empty in a futile attempt to replenish the life and materials relinquished from their bodies. The Miqo’te hurried towards the neutral ground of The Bounty, other gatherers already making their way worriedly ahead of her. She soon found herself stopped, however, as a crowd formed around a particularly menacing looking Au Ra man. “If you want to use this wind current to get to The Bounty you’ll need to pay a toll!” The man grinned, his arms firmly folded into his sides. As the island they all stood upon began to shake violently and pull itself apart, the gatherers in front of E’tateke began to hand over their hard earned goods for passage. “This is ridiculous. There’s no way the whole crowd will make it through in time.” She thought, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. E’tateke made her way to the Au Ra and promptly shoved him into the current, the man yelling as he spun uncontrollably on his back up into the air before falling out of view into the sky below. The crowd watched in shock, their eyes turning to E’tateke who looked back to them. “What? I’m sure he’ll call a mount before he lands…” The Miqo’te decided to step into the wind current quite promptly, lest the crowd get any ideas of making her test her theory.

As she made her way on to the landmass that made up The Bounty, E’tateke was incredibly relieved to see the Airship in sight. The Miqo’te secured her knapsack and stepped on to the creaking wooden deck of the ship, cleaning off her tools as the crowd from before began to make their way onboard. If any one of them intended on reporting her actions, they certainly did not make it known as they began to take stock of their gathered materials. E’tateke took inventory as the ship filled to its capacity: she had enough trees to relocate the Gridanians, enough raspberries to bake a pie the size of Dalamud, and enough wheat to construct a two hundred floor Palace-of-the-Bread. She finished counting her things just as the ship began its ascent back into the skies above, and as she watched the now-ruined islands of the Diadem begin to fully crumble and fade she noticed an amusing sight: the Lalafell gang who had previously held her at Augur-point had not made their way to the ship in time. E’tateke watched as they tripped upon the shriveling rocks of their faltering island, frogs flying everywhere as they quickly fell with the ejected mass of stone from the skies itself. “Hah. Someone’s going to have to clean up those mashed popotoes.” E’tateke thought, leaning back and feeling the gentle breeze of the wind on her ears. As the airship disappeared into the clouds once more, she wondered what she should buy first with the scripts she would earn from her efforts upon her return.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 8 - Adroit - The Pawns of Winter

The roar of bloodlust cut through the brewing winter storm like a flurry of arrows in Drorix's direction. The young Elezen steeled his nearly frostbitten fingers as he grasped the simple pike at his side, its splintered handle laying the steel core bare like a burning flame to his palms. Drorix knew that the dragonkin's bold sweep upon him was a sign that any help-regardless if they cared to or not-could not reach him in time in the growing anger of another Coerthan storm. Though the elezen felt easily outmatched in the encounter, the thought brought him a strange sense of calming reassurance. After all, he thought, the others would seek to take claim of the dragon's death from him to receive their glory were they here at his side. He was too new to the Convictory, as the others had made clear, and as such couldn't possibly have the strength or influence to persuade them. The man gritted his teeth and took a low defensive stance, intending to prove them wrong.

The sound of the snow beneath him shaking gave him a fraction of a second to react to the massive dragon that appeared like magic from the billowing white winds; the dragon narrowly avoiding him with claws the length of a longsword. Drorix attempted to land on his feet, wobbling and sliding down the fresh snow of the hilltop as he turned to his aggressor to study him further. The dragon was certainly of Nidhogg's brood, that was no doubt. The man had seen more than a few crazed heretics in his efforts to ascend to Ishgardian nobility, and none of them could have ever hoped to become a fraction of the size of the creature. Drorix dug the base of his pike into the ground to slow his sliding descent, using it to propel him forward as he ran up the hill towards the beast. In the moments before the dragon had spotted him once more, the man studied his prey for any weaknesses. The dragon's coat of scales were flawless in all places save a spot on the back of the neck, the signs of scarring from a previous battle just barely visible under the flurry of snow that rained from the heavens.

The dragon finally turned, spotting the Elezen, and with a rearing of his front the beast slammed his claws into the ground. Drorix felt the rumbling of compacted snow and the crackling of ice that hadn't thawed once in the years since the calamity, the hilltop giving way to the rumblings of a budding avalanche! Drorix did his best to prepare for it, allowing himself to continue sliding backwards as he kept as careful an eye as he could on the dragon. The beast disappeared against a wall of white snow once more, the stomping causing a chain reaction as more snow soon followed, a veritable wave of freezing death cascading towards the knight. As Drorix lost sight of the creature he turned and paddled his pike to propel himself down the slope, doing his best to outrun the disaster growing in size and shape above him. Suddenly, the ground beside the Elezen seemed to give way as the dragon leaped from beneath the snow and ice, shattering the very ground beneath him like a leviathan upon the bitter sea! Drorix attempted to grind his boots to a halt, but the momentum was far too strong and he soon fell into the growing hole, the mass of snow and ice behind him catching up in short order, smashing upon his rusting chainmail.

Drorix blacked out for a time, and in his restless thoughts he believed himself to be well and truly dead. His thoughts turned to the meager orphanage he had left in the Brume; his siblings who he had abandoned in search of a better life for all of them. The Convictory was known for its danger, its ruthlessness, but it was also known to the man for the opportunity it could bring to one with the skill to bring Ishgard's enemies to heel. The knight knew he couldn't give up, no matter the cost to his safety. As he prayed to Halone in his dreams for another chance, his opportunity came in the form of a rumble that awoke him from his unconscious thoughts. The man was buried in a sea of ice, his head aching in a mixture of concussive pounding and endless ringing as the dragon stood some few ilms from his spot, searching for him.

Drorix gripped his miraculously undamaged pike and felt the cold snow and ice around him for its give. The material was like to freeze anew in short order, the man thought, but with each thunderous roar and stomp of the dragon the material encasing him began to loosen. The man waited for the next stomp of the dragon to poke his pike through the snow, making just enough of a hole to make out the dragon's movements. Drorix waited with paused breath as the dragon surveyed the area, seemingly ignoring his spot by the grace of Halone herself, and as the beast stomped and roared he continued his work to free himself. The young knight's opportunity finally came as the dragon turned its back to his location, his moment of opportunity arriving at last. Drorix took a deep breath and leapt up to his feet out of the snow, and as the dragon detected his movement the man struck his pike's head into the snow, using it to vault through the air and upon the dragon's back. The dragon whipped its weight swiftly to the side in an attempt to dislodge him, but not before the Elezen could plunge his pike into the wound upon the dragon's neck, causing the beast to roar in a furious anger.

Drorix knew that it was now or never: the pike, though embedded within a critical point of the creature, was but a toothpick to the size and stature of the beast. The man dug his boots into the back of the dragon's scales and pushed with all his might, forcing the pike deeper into the dragon's flesh. The dragon bucked and whipped at him with its wings, and when that failed to work the creature took flight. The falling snow ripped across the Elezen's face like razors as he held on to the pike for dear life, like an engineer bound to the seat of a chaotic machine. The dragon twirled and flew at angles in an attempt to knock the knight to his death, and as Drorix felt his grip begin to slip the man slammed his palm into the sword guard of the pike's head, impaling his own arm to delay his loss of grip. The dragon let out a screaming breath of flame as he dived for the side of a nearby mountain. Drorix knew he was nearly there: the pike was certainly causing significant pain to the creature now; its thrashing embedding the weapon deeper into its body. The man watched the dragon fly swiftly in the direction of a mountainside, doing his best to anticipate the movements of the beast as impact appeared inevitable.

The beast swooped down in a cavern-like carving in the side of the mountain, slamming into it with the full force of its body. The dragon let out a screech of pain as the pike forced its way in further by sheer momentum, seemingly hitting a vital organ as the dragon's limbs began to grow lifeless. The violent impact of the dive was not without equal consequence, however, as the rumbling forced a flurry of icecicles upon the Elezen. Drorix let out a cry of pain as the rain of frozen blades pierced through parts of his weakened armor, crushing bone and slashing through skin with ease. The pain, as serious as it felt, was muted in the Elezen's thoughts as he looked to the now-lifeless dragon beneath him. Drorix grinned as he pulled the pike with weakened effort from the dragon's hide, removing his blue toned hand from the side of its sharpened head. The man slid slowly down the beast's body and looked to its face for proof of its death, the lingering look of hatred flashing in its lifeless eyes. Drorix stumbled to them and pierced them with his weapon, their appearance upon his pike's head as sure of a sign as any of his impressive victory this day.

Drorix closed his eyes and felt the harsh wind of the still falling storm breeze across his achingly exhausted body. He had done what the others back at the Convictory had thought impossible. No one had thought him capable of killing even a dragonet before, let alone a dragon larger than any recorded in the camp's history. Drorix slumped to the side of the beast and watched the snow before him grow dark and red, his thoughts of what was to come preoccupying his mind. They would make him a true Dragoon at the sight of this, he thought, and then his brothers and sisters could sleep in warm beds far above the rubble they were used to. As fresh snow crept over his sitting body like a blanket, Drorix felt confident that the celebration could wait until he was less exhausted; until the storm had passed for him to wake anew.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 7 - Speculate - The Commotion

(Author's Note: ARR and HW Main Scenario spoilers up to level 55)

Aelina pushed the doors to the House of Splendors open carelessly as she walked out into the midmorning sun of Mor Dhona. The usual sounds of the market outside were quieter than they should be, she thought, and certainly quieter than the obnoxious sounds of some unknown source that had rang through the confines of the settlement for at least the past fifteen minutes. Even stranger still, she considered, was the lack of merchants or customers at the stalls. The woman picked up a brisk pace to match the look of seriousness upon her face as she moved beyond the stalls and down to the Aetheryte plaza proper. She was quickly met with an answer to her considerations in the form of a mass of people both standing and sitting upon the ledges leading down to the plaza, their faces transfixed in the direction of The Seventh Heaven. The crowd whispered to each other in fascination, with more than a few among them gripping their weapons from their sheaths in anticipation.

“Oi!” Aelina called to the crowd. “What the ‘ells going on here!? Rowena can’t operate a business with all this racket!” Aelina’s first thoughts were that a fight had broken out in the bar itself. After all, she thought, Alys the barkeep and a number of regulars she recognized stood among the crowd. A familiar face finally turned to Aelina to explain the situation: the adventurer-turned-guardsman Slafborn, who had apparently been the first to see what was transpiring. “Something’s wrong at The Rising Stones…bunch of Domans went in a bit ago, and there’s been ‘Braves getting the boot here and there since.” Aelina looked to the entrance of The Seventh Heaven in confusion. “Aye? You’re telling me the Domans are up to no good then?” Slafborn shot her a mean glance before turning his face back to the Inn as well. “Not in the slightest…the Domans are as trustworthy as they come. It’s the ‘Braves I question.”

Alys turned to Slafborn as he spoke to Aelina, nodding. “I’d agree with you there, Slaf. They’ve been coming and going with quite a bit more attitude these past weeks. I can hardly get them to pay a tab without getting daggers for eyes in kind. Haven’t seen the young master or the Scions in quite some time either…” The crowd seemed more interested in the conversation now, and more than a few had their own thoughts on the matter. A well-dressed merchant from the square—Tataroga, Aelina had recalled his name—made a show of his gasp as he responded to the bartender. “Well of course you haven’t! Did none of you hear the rumors? The Scions were accused of regicide but a month ago! No one’s seen hide or hair of the lot since!” A number of those in the crowd gasped at the words of the merchant, but not before a pair of armor clad adventurers could make their detestation of the claim known. “Hmph.” Said Sark, his Lalafell-sized coat of chainmail jingling as he turned to face the merchant. “You’d be a fool to believe what any man in Ul’dah would tell you. What of you, Galumunt? Did you know the Warrior of Light to be of the Assassin sort?” The scarred Roegadyn sitting next to him turned, shaking his head. “Not at all. The man woulda gone to the bloody depths o’ the void to help someone, an’ his friends would’ve followed him.”

Sark crossed his arms as his eyes turned once more to The Seventh Heaven. “We’re certainly seeing something far more sinister at play here…something we should leave our untrained noses out of.” A silence filled the air as those in the crowd contemplated his words, their eyes still glued to the front doors and the occasional cracking sounds from within. “You know…now that you mention it, I did notice something unusual.” A number of the people among the crowd turned to the source of the voice, finding it to be the local keeper of the chocobos. Her voice muffled from her mask as she spoke to the group. “The Domans were definitely keeping a more careful eye on the place, from what I saw. Haven’t seen any of them go in for a long time, though…well, until today that is.” As the group whispered their thoughts on the matter, Aelina’s blood began to boil. Rowena would be coming out soon to scold her for not getting a grip on the situation were this disruption to Mor Dhona’s business be allowed to continue on. Aelina looked over those in attendance of the group before picking the one she thought would most elucidate the situation to the crowd as a whole: the small moogle mailman who fluttered back and forth at the side of the gathering, his mailbag bouncing upon his shoulder. “You, moogle! Surely you’ve been ‘round long enough to see what’s going on here! What’s going on with the Crystal Braves!?”

The moogle jumped at the sound of his presence being called out, his hat wiggling back and forth upon his head as he responded. “M-m-me, kupo? I just deliver the mail! I’m too busy to keep tabs on so many adventurers!” Aelina shot him a searing look as she asked again. “Well, you’ve certainly had to ‘ave mailed some letters of theirs recently! What are they reporting, and to who?!” The moogle shook apologetically in anticipation of his answer’s reception. “I-it’s none of my business who mails what! A mailmoogle must have integrity, kupo! B-besides, they’ve not sent any letters through me recently! N-not since the Scions were last seen here, k-kupo!” Slafborn raised his large hand to halt the interaction any further. “This is getting us nowhere, Aelina. You know as well as I do that there’s not a guard in all of Mor Dhona we could send in to clean up a spat between the Scion’s lot, and I’m on good authority to make that claim for the Domans too. We’ll just have to wait and see-“

No sooner did the man begin to end his warning before the sounds of The Seventh Heaven—and The Rising Stones Within—did erupt onto the street. The crowd watched as a number of blue robed braves were kicked promptly to the cobbled ground; the few who didn’t get up to immediately flee the city gates lingering only to collect their tattered belongings and spilled coin, their faces bloodied and bruised. A few Domans stood at the door alongside a blonde haired, friendly face: that of the one the town knew to be Riol Forrest. “Take your bastard friends with you ‘n track down the coward if you want! This ‘eres a place for those who believe in the Scions! The fool’s probably hidin in a barrel halfway to Ala Mhigo by now, ‘an do you think he cares one lick about your loyalty!?”

The doors gave way to even more members of the braves that found themselves promptly thrown to the curb, each one looking more bruised and beaten than the last. “Mutiny averted, it seems…” Galumunt quipped, smearing his nose against his forearm as they watched with interest. Just as it was seeming to get good, however, the telltale pinkish hue of nasty fog rolled in through the eastern gate. Slafborn cursed as he covered his mouth. “Seven hells, why now when it’s getting interesting?” Sark sat next to his friend and pulled a cloth bandana up from underneath his chainmail. “It’s a sign from the gods for us to mind our business, it seems.” As the actions of the Crystal Braves and Domans obscured under the rolling clouds of gloomy aether, dispersing the crowd that had gathered, Aelina sighed and wondered just what exactly she would tell Rowena was the cause of all this commotion.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 6 - Avatar - The Goldsmith's Mistake

The sun was just beginning to set across the warm Thanalan sky when Dewedain arrived. The man had arrived early, even in spite of his many mistaken turns down the twisting alleyways of Ul’dah to find the place, and so he stood steady next to the locked door. This place was a workshop, he had been told; one that was special and quite secretive, owned and maintained by the goldsmith’s guild. Dewedain smiled to himself in excitement as he awaited the arrival of the guild receptionist. He had worked hard in the past few years under promise of this day’s arrival, and though others had excelled in the flashier aspects of the trade, Dewedain sought to hone his skills towards a more practical aspect of the skillset: a mastery of clockwork movement. After all, Dewedain thought, no one would buy an off-tune music box or an inaccurate timepiece, no matter how sparkly and bejeweled they were made to be. Surely this night would be a reward to the culmination of his efforts.

As Jemime made her way down the narrow alleyway, keys in hand, Dewedain snapped back to attention. “This is it.” He thought, “My very own workshop…” As Jemime gave her greeting and pulled a particular key from the ring, she spoke to him. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here. I have orders from the Guildmaster herself.” Dewedain’s heart leaped as he awaited the words, nodding quickly. Jemime continued. “The Guildmaster has asked me to have you put your skills to the task of fixing a few of the clockwork automatons in this workshop by sunrise. Please lock up when you are finished.” Dewedain stared in confusion for a moment, not quite processing the words. “All this…to fix a few stinking Mammets!?” Dewedain bit his lip as he did his best to hold back his disappointment. His disdain for the creatures was no well-kept secret amongst the guild. When they weren’t breaking his concentration with their obnoxiously loud movement—or cursing, in Gigi’s case—they were constantly breaking down and wasting both time and delicate parts. As Dewedain resigned to his fate and went to grab the key, Jemime stopped him, raising her finger up in the air. “Not yet...before you go in I have a warning from the Guildmaster herself. It is a great honor to work in this particular shop, Dewedain…these are no ordinary automatons. Do not let your curiosity get the better of you, and under nocircumstances are you to unlock the workshop door once more, until the moment you leave. Do you understand?” Dewedain considered the strange rules and agreed to do so, his thoughts still preoccupied with his annoyance at the task in hand.

Jemime handed over the key to him and waited for him to open the door, which he promptly did. Dewedain walked into the workshop, the room much larger and darker than he had imagined it would be. Jemime closed the door as he grabbed a lantern from the wall, turning to lock the door by her instructions. As her footsteps faded from his ears he turned once more, fumbling with the lantern. “How un-ordinary could a couple of stupid Mammets be...” He thought, pulling the mechanism to light the oil within with a fire shard. The lantern roared to life, illuminating a workshop space beset on all sides with shelves and benches. Dewedain looked on at awe with the help of the light, the illumination revealing the true nature of the objects stored within the workshops walls: each shelf contained dozens of clockwork creations, each one uniquely designed from the others. Dewedain walked down the small path cleared between the shelves of the workshop, identifying the ones he could. That one there was of a Moogle, he could plainly tell. That one there was an airship! There were hundreds of these things in here, most of them far beyond the man’s knowledge or recognition. He even spotted a few unfortunate looking designed ones in the back: some manufactured as some form of caricature to the deadly primals he had seen depictions of in paintings, and even one of the dreaded Dalamud! Dewedain lit every candle he could find in the workshop, revealing them in all their glory.

As the man looked upon their craftsmanship with childlike enthusiasm, he suddenly made a realization to himself. “Wait…I have seen these before. These are…clockwork figures commissioned by adventurers!” Minions, he remembered they were called; a new fad made popular by the Scions and their Warrior of Light. Dewedain had not known the guild to be even a partial source of these creations, but as he stood among them and took in their lovingly crafted sights, he could not help but feel his heart begin to swell with excitement anew. “These are certainly no Mammets…anyone willing to put in this level of detail must have a commendably high level of expectation in their functionality…” As the man sat down at a workbench with a number of the objects lined up, he began to feel much better about the task at hand. Grabbing his set of tools and goldsmith spectacles, the man grabbed the closest clockwork minion to him—a Cherry Bomb—and got to work. The inner workings of the automatons, as it turned out, were just as intriguing as their exterior details to the man, though not too difficult to ascertain and troubleshoot. It took only a half hour or so for the man to fix the Cherry Bomb, and he watched with restrained joy as the minion rose in the air, glowing and gyrating with life. Dewedain couldn’t wait to fix the others upon the workbench to see how they acted, and so he resumed his work with speed and precision.

After what seemed like just a few short hours, the man was finally working on his last minion: one of an adventurer that seemed to change in appearance and attitude to mimic the famed Warrior of Light. Dewedain fixed it with relative ease, a parade of Moogle minions dancing and frolicking around his head. As the man turned to the rest of the shelves to put his fixed ones away, he couldn’t help but feel the pangs of curiosity grip his heart. There were still so many upon the shelves that did not need fixing; many of which Dewedain was curious to watch and open up to explore their interactions. As the man idly moved towards a shelf to place this recently fixed “Minion of Light” the Moogle minions flying above him dipped too low, tripping him. Dewedain smacked his head upon the shelf, sending it falling backwards into the next one like a domino effect before sprawling out on the ground. The man groaned in pain, his vision darkening as he heard the strange winding of objects around him.

When Dewedain awoke to the workshop once more, he found it to be in utter chaos. A rancid smell forced him to sit up quickly, only to find that it was a mischievous looking morbol giggling at his reaction before scurrying away. The man watched in horror as many of the minions had come to life, and carried an attitude much like their counterparts: Wolf pups chased coeurl kittens around the floor, a small goobbue sat upon one shelf with an even smaller pudding in its mouth, while the fearsome primals of Eorzea seemed to be arguing and fighting with one another. Dewedain got up to his feet only to find a rather ominous looking Tonberry brandishing a knife mere inches from where his head once laid. The man panicked as he considered what to do, knowing the Guildmaster was certain to have his head if Jemime returned to the workshop to find this. As the man contemplated his options and the disturbingly lifelike nature of some of the automatons’ functionality, a Warrior of Light stepped forth to save the day! Dewedain watched as the minion he had fixed leapt to his aid, smacking the Tonberry with a model sword and knocking the winding key from its back. The automated Tonberry immediately halted, its movements abruptly ending as it stood lifeless on the floor. Dewedain watched as the miniature Warrior of Light turned to the primal minions and held his sword aloft. Others, much to the man’s surprise, soon joined him. Dewedain looked upon their features and recognized them to be lifelike models of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. The man could hardly believe it as a miniaturized recreation of the many battles he had heard rumors of was unfolding before his very eyes!

The miniature troupe of adventurers began their fierce battle with the primal automatons, buying Dewedain the time he needed to gather up the rest. While they felled the tiny nails of Ifrit, Dewedain tracked down the morbol seedling and pulled the key from its writhing mass of tentacles; while they dodged the pushes of Titan’s pebble-like fists across the surface of the workbench, Dewedain broke up the pups and kittens, placing them back upon the shelves he had now returned to their upright position. Garuda flew high above the reach of any of the adventurers, but not high enough to not be plucked from the air by the man while she wasn’t looking. Dewedain let out a sigh of relief as he felt the danger begin to subside from the room, but not before a comparatively miniscule shockwave sent the adventurers flying off the bench, their wind-up keys discarded to the floor. Dewedain turned to find none other than Dalamud itself, an almost cute recreation of Bahamut rising out of the cracked opening of the false moon! The man watched as the figure seemed to breathe a fire that looked all too real to risk touching. “Who the hell thought this was a good idea!?” Dewedain thought, and as the creature moved closer and closer to him he was certain that he would not be freed of the automaton without incurring at least a few burns; burns that Jemime would certainly question upon her return.

As Dewedain took a step back, he felt something begin to climb his back from behind him. The man turned to look, gasping at the revelation of another active minion: that of the famed Louisoix himself! The miniature Louisoix held his trust staff high and fired bolts of magic at the baby Bahamut, causing the Dreadwyrm’s miniature to charge and swarm Dewedain as he panicked. Louisoix stood fast to the man’s shoulder, Dewedain helping to dodge the flames as Louisoix fired missile after missile of arcane magic at the dragon. The fight did not last long as the Dreadwyrm fumbled with the Dalamud model upon his head, one well-placed missile sending it falling to the floor. Dewedain quickly grabbed the wind-up key from the top of its head and collected it, placing it lifelessly on a shelf. As Dewedain picked up the remaining inanimate models and made a final sweep of the workshop for any further signs of active minions, there came a knock on the workshop door. “Dewedain? It’s dawn. You’re not sleeping in there, are you?”

Dewedain dimmed the lights in the workshop and rushed to the door, unlocking it. “N-Not at all, Jemime!” Dewedain stood as firm as he could before the guild receptionist, his sweat covered face trying to remain as convincingly calm as possible. “You…didn’t run into any issues, did you? I know automatons aren’t particularly your favorite…” Dewedain cleared his throat and responded. “N-no trouble at all! They were actually quite interesting…The work was, uh, very easy for me.” Jemime looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “I see…that’s wonderful news, but…are you absolutely certain you ran into no trouble at all?” Dewedain nodded in acknowledgement, feeling the receptionist’s eyes upon him like spotlights. “I see…your dedication is very much appreciated. You’re free to go home and rest now.” Dewedain relaxed his posture and breathed a silent sigh of relief as he turned to head down the alleyway. “Oh, Dewedain? One more thing before you go.” Dewedain stopped and turned to Jemime, a knowing smile forming on her lips. “I’ll let the Guildmaster know to put the Louisoix on your tab.” Dewedain’s heart sank as he looked to himself, the proof of his mistake still standing upon his shoulders protectively.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 5 (CYA) - Recovery - The Ballade of the Shire

(Author's Note: Very slight Heavensward spoilers)

Beyond the Coerthan winter sting,

and ‘twixt Dravania’s spiral peak;

once ocean from afar did bring,

a lot whose studies bade them seek.

A place their numbers once did leak,

but not before their hopes did sire,

and others drawn to its mystique,

now knew it as an idyll shire.

Where once masters made knowledge sing,

each mind’s studies far unique;

rose fear of war-bells that still ring,

and so they left it, failed and bleak.

Yet now, endowed with gobbie-speak

the thoughts once lost did now inspire;

new students prompting new musique

now knew it as an idyll shire.

Oh, if their eyes could see the thing!

Its abandoned halls the thieves did tweak!

Heart’s soaring hope gave studies wing,

despite their lacking of technique.

And though the thought, to some, may reek

A scholar could not turn denier,

New teachers whom in lost lands did sneak,

now knew it as an idyll shire.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 4 - Baleful - A Prince’s Palace

(Author’s Note: A Realm Reborn and Palace of the Dead Spoilers. Contains some descriptions of death and decay some may find uncomfortable).

Drip. Drip. A steady droplet of unclean water fell upon him from the damp stone of the ceiling hanging high overhead. He had felt its obnoxious presence disturbing his sleep for some time, he thought, but it was only now that his body wished to awaken and move in agreement. The lalafell groaned a raspy, annoyed sound as his sleepy mind became reacquainted with the movement of his limbs in an attempt to get up. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache as he pushed upwards from the cold stone floor with his hands, his eyes looking down into the hazy darkness of the room in confusion. “Where am I?” the man thought, trying to recall the events of the night before. “Was it…a party?...Yes, I remember now…I must have drank too much.” The monetarist let out a curse as he struggled to get back up and find his composure once more. He knew himself to be quite bad at holding a drink, especially when attending celebrations. Though his mind was shrouded in aching fog, he was certain that the night before had given cause to much celebration.

It took considerable effort for him to finally stand, his joints creaking as pain shot up his body like a fire. The lalafell yelled out in frustration at his own soreness, calling out for a guard to fetch a chirurgeon. His refined voice fell on no ears, however, as it bounced upon the walls of the strange room he found himself in. “Curse those worthless Brass Blades…where in the hells am I?!” The lalafell looked around the dark room he was in. In all his years serving on the syndicate, Teledji Adeledji had never seen a room like this in the royal palace. The walls were dark and fairly damp; a strange, ethereal glow emanating from their cracks to produce just enough light to make out the dimensions of the room. Teledji took a step forward, nearly falling over once again as his feet seemed to delay their response to his command. Cursing once more, the lalafell managed to stumble up against a wall, his hand wiping the sweat off his face as he focused again on the events that had come to pass the night before. “The party!” Teledji recalled. “I must have celebrated the ‘unfortunate’ passing of the Sultana by the Scions hands a little too much…I’ll make my way back out to the court proper and call for assistance.” Teledji brushed his hands upon the matted hair of his goatee, shuddering at the sensation of filthiness upon him. Someone would pay for the state of this place as soon as he was back in clean clothes, he thought.

Teledji walked along the side of the room, letting the wall keep his shoulder steady as he used his hand to guide him through the darkness. The room had hallways, it seemed, which led only to more rooms of similar darkness and texture. He contemplated the purpose of these rooms: were they for storage? Perhaps an abandoned corridor from the damage of the calamity? Teledji grinned as he thought about the treasures and secrets that might lay hidden in the palace that would one day be his, lost to the passage of time. The thought of riches and power called out to him like no other mistress, all soon to be his with the success of his careful scheming the night before. Lord Lolorito and the other monetarists would have no choice but to kneel before him and the power of his Omega device, and no Scion would be left to challenge his excavation of the Cartenau Flats. Not even Raubahn, the blind bull of Ala Mhigo, would stand in his way. His thoughts lingered on the name coldly as he continued to guide his way back to civilization.

It was in the discovery of his third identical room that Teledji seemed to hear the grinding of something out in the darkness. The sound made the lalafell curious, and so he stepped in further to investigate. The noise had become quite loud to him before his eyes could make its source out in the darkness of the room. Before him stood a flowing, dark specter, its dark-as-night cloak flickering with an otherworldly glow of ominous magic. Teledji jumped in place, letting out a muffled eep as he backed away slowly. The grinding noise, as Teledji had learned, seemed to come from the unmistakably sharp and long claws beneath the creatures robed sleeves, scraping and clicking amongst each other in menacing anticipation. As the creature began to turn Teledji stumbled against the wall, throwing any chance of silence to the wind as he attempted to run away screaming. “Somebody!! Anybody! HELP!” Teledji screamed, calling out the names of any guard or Crystal Brave he could recall. “A voidsent!? In the palace!?” He thought, doing whatever he could to make distance between himself and the creature.

Teledji ran through room after room, no longer aware of where he had been or not been before finally tripping and falling to the floor. He laid on the floor, his body shuddering as he took a deep breath and listened in for the sounds of the creature. The moments seemed to pass like hours as he waited for any sign of his impending doom, a sign that never arrived to his surprise and great relief. The specter, it had seemed, had lost track of him. Teledji sighed in immense relief and began to sit back upright, but not before noticing a curious sight: His robes, tattered and dirty as they had become from this place, were soaked in blood down the entire front. As the lalafell went to touch the dried blood, his memory seemed to come back to him. “R-Raubahn! That’s right! Raubahn tried to attack me! I must have followed the blades down here to apprehend him as he tried to escape…why on earth would they have left me down here!?” Teledji grew angry as he stood back up, regaining his balance against the wall. No royalty should ever be made to deal with this, he thought. Teledji took a deep breath and tried to recompose himself for what he knew to be required ahead: There would be no empire if he did not escape this place, and clearly the idiotic guardsmen of Ul’dah could not be relied upon in this case.

Knowing now that the path before him was dangerous, the monetarist made his movements far more careful as he sought to follow the walls in the opposite direction this time. The darkness down here was certain to obscure his movements from other creatures, he thought, and it was highly unlikely he would have been willing to venture too far down into these catacombs in the prior night’s hunt for Raubahn. Some time passed as Teledji wandered the labyrinthine halls and rooms around him, completely lost to any sense of direction. As Teledji continued to explore, he eventually found a room unlike the others he had seen before, adorned in a blue light with soft glow. As he made his way into this room, he was surprised to see that he was not alone; the glow seemed to emanate from a torch-like fixture in the corner of the room, and beneath that fixture sat a man with his back turned to the lalafell. The man wore the telltale clothes of a poor man of Ul’dah; his Highlander complexion provoking a smile of relief upon Teledji’s face. “You there! Refugee! Help me to safety and I will pay you your weight and more in gold!” The man failed to respond, mumbling under his breath repeatedly. Undeterred, Teledji sought to provoke him further. “Up with you! Are you lot from Ala Mhigo all this lazy?! Fine! A palace for you and yours, just get me out of here!” Teledji grew angry at the man’s lack of response and stumbled forward to grab the man by the shoulder. Finally, the man turned, revealing a throat slit and caked with the blood blackened and crusted over by time. Teledji let out a shriek and backed up as the man looked into his eyes, the top corner of his face simply gone from his hairline to his empty eye socket. “Executed….I….I can’t….I w-was…” The man looked to Teledji, his one remaining eye pleading in horror as an effluvial scent of rot escaped his open mouth.

Teledji took off, unable to bear the sight of the man any longer as he ran down the halls and rooms screaming. “T-this place has gone mad! SOMEONE! ANYONE! PLEASE HELP!” The reality of the danger he was in had finally set in his mind, the endless passageways of this place seeming to close in on him like a prison. Teledji would bound his way through a room only to find other creatures as foul in appearance as the ones he had seen, all seeming to pay him little mind as he continued to scream for help. As he rounded a corner into a one-way room, he tripped, flying up into the air and falling upon the uneven stone floor with a sickening rip behind him. He struggled to stand, rolling over on his back as he tried to get up. Looking down, Teledji let out a fresh scream of fear: his lower half had begun to come undone, his waist connected to his torso by only a few sinewy threads of muscle and a cracked spine, the blood and flesh exposed by the separation dark and flyblown with larvae squirming in and out. Teledji thrashed his upper body in instinctual fear, smashing himself against the floor in any desperate attempt possible to free himself from the disgusting rot that had seemed to so suddenly grip his lower half. There was no relief in his mind as he finally freed himself from it, dragging himself with his hands out of the room as he tried in futility to find his escape from this nightmare. “This isn’t possible…I should be dead….I should be dead!” Teledji closed his eyes and begged for himself to awake in his bed, his hands pulling and dragging him out of determination to leave.

As Teledji dragged himself towards the sounds of fighting that now echoed the halls of this place, his mind gained clarity through the madness of his current predicament.

“I….I a-am dead.”

The lalafell remembered all too clearly now the events of the party, how Raubahn had treated the news of his beloved Sultana’s death. The last moments that he could remember were the burning of steel; the sensation of the numbness of his lower body as his back hit the ground, or so he thought. Teledji knew now that the truth was far more sinister than that. That night had not been last night by any stretch of imagination, and though he had no count or idea of how long it had been, he remembered now what was to come. As Teledji looked down the hallway to the shimmering of armor against the glow of the darkened rooms, his eyes lit up with knowing fear over glimmering hope. The Warrior of Light he had condemned to regicide was coming, as he had come so many times before, and there was nothing he could do to stop him. As the man dashed down the hallway towards Teledji and brandished his axe high in the air behind him, intent on repeating the cycle once anew, Teledji could only let out but a few cowering words. “N-No��S-Stay back! Not Again!”

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 3 - Scale - The Weight of Contribution

It was another cold day in the high reaches of Ishgard’s firmament, the rhythmic sounds of hammers and saws echoing off the stone steps and wind swept tunnels. Arvide took comfort in the noise as he worked with his fellow engineers of the Manufactory on their latest contribution to the development of the Risensong Quarter. The clanking toil of his hammer against steel was music to his ears, so much so that it was no surprise that he did not hear the quick footsteps of his friend behind him. “Arvide!” hailed the friend, “You’re needed at the Dais!” Arvide put down his hammer and greeted his friend, a bemused smile forming on his lips. “Am I? What breakthrough has she made now?” Arvide could not help but notice the seriousness of his friends face, however, and the smile soon faded. “There’s a fight brewing between her an’ a merchant. You best get over there before the guards get involved!”

Arvide thanked his friend and made arrangements to cover his post, taking off for Saint Roelle’s Dais. He had never known Ehll Tou to be of the violent sort. Far from it, in fact: from the moment the Warrior of Light had introduced them, he had known Ehll Tou only as a bright eyed and eager to learn student. Their shared protégé was one of the nicest dragons Arvide had ever met since the opening of the gates to their kin, and he could scarce believe that such an attitude would change now. Even Hautdilong, though misguided he sometimes was as a youth, would know better than to provoke a fight in the midst of the firmament’s intense building efforts. Arvide tried to come up with an explanation as he bounded down the steps of the Abacus, already seeing quite a crowd forming far ahead of him.

Arvide arrived to the scene after the guards, but not before being able to ascertain the cause of the conflict. Hautdilong stood protectively close to Ehll Tou, a look of outrage on his face as her tiny dragonette wings beat with a fury that belied her own anger. Before them stood an unfamiliar face to Arvide: a merchant, dressed in far too many jewels and trinkets, a collection of aides at his side. The merchant shivered in the cold wind, his expression one of arrogance as he addressed the two. “Damn this cold and cause! I travel all this way to provide my wares, and to what end? To be mocked by this charade!? You’re as much an Artisan as that guard is a warrior of light!” Hautdilong let out an audible gasp of anger as he retorted back in kind. “She is a great crafter, and one far smarter than you! You’ll see!” As the guards began to make their approach to intervene, Arvide put his hand on one’s shoulder and slipped in front of them, walking up to the group. “What’s the meaning of this? Can you two explain..?” Hautdilong and Ehll Tou both looked relieved to see him, but before they could respond the merchant did for them. “Are you the one the dragon claims to study under? Bah! You will escort both of them out of here and apologize to me and my craftsmen for this insult to our work!”

Arvide turned to the man, his relief to see them physically unharmed fading into a look of seriousness. “I will do no such thing, sir. Their claims are true, and there is no reason a pair of able hands should be denied to participate in our efforts.” The man gave him a scowling look as he gave his sneering response. “And I suppose the works of a dragon are something you would find to be quality craftsmanship? I was told the Firmament needed competent crafters, but I can see now that offering my charity here would be but a stain on my outfit’s illustrious reputation.” Arvide clenched his fist, wanting so badly to give the man something more physical to contemplate. As he thought through what to say, an idea occurred to him that put a slight smile back upon his face. “Good Sir, while I appreciate your concern, I can vouch for the quality of Ehll Tou’s skill in the trade. If you are well and truly concerned, however, I would be happy to demonstrate though a challenge, if you are so inclined.” The words seemed to strike a fancy with the merchant’s aides, as they began to erupt in laughter. Arvide continued. “I assure you it is no jest. Ehll Tou here will challenge your finest artisan at crafting a piece of furniture—say, a chair—in a set amount of time with the materials on hand. We will let these people be the judge.” The merchant scoffed in disbelief at the offer, mocking Arvide. “And when our superior skills are shown to all, what then? It seems only fitting that all three of you should be punished for your insolence at that time…” Arvide nodded, playing along “Right you are, sir. The losing party will be removed from Ishgard as a whole, never to return.”

Hautdilong and Ehll Tou gasped with the crowd as a malicious smile began to curl upon the merchants lips. “So be it then, but do not presume your relation to the crowd here will save you. I will call upon more to bear witness to the contest: the merchants of the Jeweled Crozier and the knights of the congregation. Procure your “fine” materials as you wish and return here in one hour, then we shall see who is deserving of the title.” As the merchant promptly left to gather their things, the crowd began to disperse. “Master Arvide, I…are you sure that was a wise decision?” Hautdilong spoke, his face turning pale. “Ehll Tou is undoubtedly becoming a great crafter, but…she’s still learning. We haven’t even the saw to fit her hand…” Arvide turned to the now somber looking Ehll Tou, her eyes averting contact with his as she nodded in agreement. Arvide brought both of them close and kneeled down, speaking to them. “Leave that to me, there are still enough materials from the Warrior of Light’s last delivery for me to fashion something suitable. None of us will be leaving Ishgard this day.” Arvide turned to face Ehll Tou directly, smiling. “Do you remember what I told you of crafting for someone?” Ehll Tou looked up to Arvide and nodded, the flapping of her wings quieting to a gentle rhythm. “The most important thing is to consider the need over appearances, right..?” Arvide nodded in satisfaction. “Right. Grand isn’t always best….you’ve seen the Firmament grow, and you know what these people need. Stay true to that and he cannot best you.” Ehll Tou thought on the words for a time before nodding again in acknowledgement, her faith in her skills renewed.

Arvide knew that time was short, and so he made quick arrangements to give Ehll Tou everything she needed to compete. He had Hautdilong hurry down to The New Nest to deliver a writ of request to Anna for materials—a move he was certain would cost him future grief; a necessary evil—as he ran back to the workshop to gather the necessary materials to forge a suitable saw for her size. In truth, the engineer had already made out more than a few plans for new tools to surprise the dragonette with, and it was not long before he returned with a saw perfect for her grip and size. He went over the basics with Ehll Tou, tying in the basics of woodcraft with the skills she had already learned in the trades of weaving and material gathering. A crowd around the two crafters began to form, and as the hour winded down Hautdilong finally returned with Anna, the two bringing bundles of the necessary material over to the dragonette. Things had fallen into place not a moment too soon as the crowd grew exponentially larger with each passing minute, the return of the merchant and his collection of aides clear as they began to approach the Dais from the bridge connecting the Mendicant’s Court. Arvide took a deep breath and gave a nod of encouragement to Ehll Tou as he stepped back in anticipation.

The merchant arrived with materials befitting his smug sense of refinement: exotic woods and shimmering varnishes, and a far too well dressed craftsman in tow. The merchant smugly turned to the crowd and addressed them. “I would say that this dragon’s materials alone prove the victory of my Artisan, but I suppose there’s no fun in proffering mercy, now is there? Let both of our craftsmen build against the toll of the next bell, and this crowd shall see the lie given title to this beast.” Arvide bit his lip as the man spoke, and as soon as he had finished his declaration the craftsman under his employ quickly went to work with the exotic materials. Arvide looked to Ehll Tou and gave her a thumbs up, signaling that it was time for the building to begin in earnest. Both Ehll Tou and her challenger gathered their tools and made their measurements, the cacophony of cuts and hammering broken up only by the sounds of cheers and excitement from the crowd as they watched the talents of each competitor. Arvide could not deny the skill of Ehll Tou’s opponent, but watched with confidence as the man fell right into the trappings that Arvide expected. The dragonette’s opponent, as expected of a man employed by a vain and rich merchant, seemed to care far too much about the niceties of the chair’s design and its appearance. In comparison, Ehll Tou was still working on the basics and lagging behind. Arvide hoped that his gamble would pay off.

The bell of the nearby towers finally rang some many minutes later, signaling the end of the hour and the crafter’s efforts on their furniture. Ehll Tou and the other Artisan stepped away from their creations, allowing the crowd to behold them. The crowd looked first upon the Artisan’s chair, a great deal of oohs and aahs slipping from their lips. The chair was jeweled beauty, the grain of its exotic wood striping the colorful golden-orange exterior of the chair. The arm rests curved and balled at the palm with polished, embedded gems; the backing of the chair upholstered with a coffee brown cushioning that looked positively inviting. Even Arvide would have been forced to admit that it was no doubt the nicest chair in the entirety of the Firmament. The merchant looked upon it with glee, and the crowd’s reaction was but fuel to his increasingly smug attitude. “Look! This is what a true craftsman makes! This chair would make any feel fit as a king!”

The crowd then turned to the creations of Ehll Tou, their reaction much more muted. Ehll Tou, it had seemed, could not decide on the shape or size that her chair should be. In her place of crafting stood three attempts made out of the same muted wood and basic materials she had been given: one chair far bigger than any man, bench-like in size and shape; one rough-hewn rocking chair of acceptable height and size; and one strange amalgamation of wood shaped almost like a coat rack. The merchant, of course, delighted at the revelation of these finished products, roaring laughter coming from the place of his aides in the crowd. “Is this the best your student can do? It’s a wonder you’re even allowed a place among the builders here!” Arvide stepped forward and into the area of the products, standing at the side of a now-defeated-looking Ehll Tou. “I have absolute faith in my pupil’s skill. I am certain that there is an explanation, and I would have her speak her mind.” Arvide turned to Ehll Tou, gesturing to the three creations that stood before them. “I see that you made a chair of reasonable quality. What of the bench? And this strange thing here? Can you explain them to me?” Ehll Tou’s wings flapped quietly as she addressed Arvide’s question with uncertainty. “Well… making the chair was easy enough, but…there was no point to make it fancy if it would get in the way of whoever sat in it...and what about other dragons like myself? We would like to sit too, every now and then...” she spoke, gesturing first to the coat-rack-like design, then to the large bench-like creation “…I thought that this might be more accommodating for us, and that made me consider what you said even more. What if someone else needed a place to sit? Someone like Marcelloix?” Arivde smilled as she explained to him and the crowd, the gears turning in his mind. “It sounds to me like you put a lot of thought into it, Ehll Tou. Far more than your competitior.”

The merchant listened in with outrage, starting in on Arvide. “Now see here!” The merchant exclaimed, “You may think yourself capable of weaseling out of your punishment, but this crowd will not be fooled by your intentions!” Arvide turned to the merchant, responding in a peaceful, reassured way. “Your fears are ill placed, merchant. I have no intention on declaring the winner here. However…If my craftsman has made concessions in appearance for functionality, I think it only fair that the crowd be given the ability to judge that functionality themselves. Are there any dragonettes here that would mind giving their thoughts?” The crowd looked among themselves before the high pitched flapping and excited squeaks of one such individual made their way to the center of the dais. “Ooh! Me! I’ll test them out!” The dragonette soared into view happily, perching itself first upon the other artisan’s creation. To Arvides relief, it appeared that the dragonette was not particularly fond of the merchant’s chair: the rounded palms of the armrest making it difficult for the dragon to perch itself upon the wood, while the cushioning on the top and bottom made its wings compress in an awkward, uncomfortable looking way. The dragonette got up, leaving small scratches in the wood as it did so, and made its way over to the strange design Ehll Tou had concocted. After a few moments of perching, the dragonette gave its verdict. “This feels great! I can rest my wings up here without feeling confined, and my tail doesn’t feel restricted!”

The crowd whispered among themselves while the merchant made his discontent known. “Ridiculous! This contest was for a chair, not a perch for some oversized bird! It should be judged based on the design as it was intended, first and foremost!” Arvide looked to the man and grinned. “Oh, I would quite agree sir! But, as your artisan may have noticed just now, it seems that your chair is not the most resilient piece of furniture, now is it?” The merchant shook his head, his words spewing out like pointed arrow tips. “What of it? A chair is a chair, not some plaything for beasts!” Arvide sighed as he looked to the crowd. “Correct again, good sir, but surely even you are aware of the people that will be seated in your chair. Look around you and you will find a steady supply of knights, all of whom would be equally glad to be given an opportunity to sit between shifts of the watch. Are there any such knights among us that would be willing to give their thoughts?” It was not long before one such person stepped forward from the congregation, nodding. “Aye, I’d be happy to try both.” The merchant watched bug eyed as the knight made his way over to his artisan’s creation, sitting down upon the chair without much thought or carefulness. The chair withstood the weight of the armored man, but its delicate form proved rather uncomfortable for the knight, whose shield and plates soon found themselves fighting the confines of the chair for flexibility. Getting back up out of the chair became an ordeal for the knight as the back plates of his armor pulled against the overly firm cushioning, ripping thread and exposing cotton in the process. The knight then sat upon Ehll Tou’s rocking chair, the weight of his equipment causing the chair to sway back ever so slightly before coming to a stop. The knight looked at himself in the chair and laughed, turning to Arvide. “Not even a contest, sir. This chair ain’t the comfiest, but it’d last a hell of a lot longer than the shite he’s made.”

The crowd was beginning to turn on the merchant, who refused to relent in his arrogant attitude. “The chair wasn’t meant for you, fool! It’s a thing of beauty, meant to be the jewel of someone’s living area! Even in its damaged state there are people that would feel like sultans sitting upon it!” The merchant pointed accusingly at Arvide. “Don’t presume that I’m blind to your schemes, wretch! Bring out your Marcelloix, then! Any man of such a refined name would understand the refined taste my Artisan’s crafts provide!” Arvide couldn’t help but grin wide as the merchant fell right into the trap. The stone of the dais began to shake as the crowd made room for Marcelloix, the tall and imposing creature that he had become. ���I would be honored to give my thoughts on your chair, sir.” The merchant stood aghast of the man, watching in silent horror as he stomped his way over to his chair. The moment his large body made contact with the wood it began to buckle, the exotic materials proving no match for the large, scale-covered body of its tester. Marcelloix was not even able to squeeze himself into the seat yet when the wood finally splintered, the back of the chair falling off as the legs ground into bits of pretty pulp. Marcelloix did not seem impressed one bit, standing back up and heading over to Ehll Tou’s creation. As he sat down upon Ehll Tou’s chair a very loud, audible groan of the wood could be heard. Nonetheless, the thicker, less beautified design of her chair proved to withstand the man’s generous size and stature, and his tail whipped around in bemused excitement at it. “This is wonderful…thank you, Ehll Tou.”

“N-now…see here!” The merchant stuttered, the crowd seemingly having made up its mind at the sight of these events. “I was asked to bring my wares to the nation of Ishgard! Not to the fancy of beasts and foot soldiers!” The crowd began to shout their disapproval as they turned upon the merchant and his many aides, and it was not long before a new voice spoke from beyond the farthest reaches of the crowd. “You are mistaken, sir.” Arvide, Ehll Tou and Hotdilong turned to find Francel of all people now arriving to the crowd. Francel looked to the merchant, addressing him curtly. “The nation of Ishgard has changed. Who and what you see before you are as much a part of our nation as any highborn. I believe that there will be no further need for your outfit’s wares here.” Francel turned to the knights in the crowd, the merchant still trying to conjure up an excuse for his alleged victory in the challenge. “Please see that our guest is escorted across the Steps of Faith. It would not do well for our valued contributors to feel unwelcome by his words.” The guards nodded in understanding and at once saw the merchant and his aids back to the Mendicant’s Court. The crowd cheered as the man was made to leave, both in acknowledgement of Francel’s words and the victory brought by Ehll Tou’s kind consideration. Those in attendance tested the chairs made by Ehll Tou, providing her kind words of encouragement and voicing their approval of her craftsmanship. Arvide smilled proudly as he looked to Ehll Tou, the energetic fluttering of her wings making an appearance once more. Francel’s words rang true to him, he thought, as the dragonette had proven once again that anyone could prove their worth and shoulder the weight of the Firmament’s ambitions.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 2 - Aberrant - Gobsmacked

The humsing of faraway gobtanks put Stronglox Swiftsfix at the edge of her seat. The Illuminati, as tricksy and cunning as she had known them to be, were never the quietest in their scheming. The whrilyclank of their wheels against the calm backdrop of the sleeping jungle gave away their intentions immediately: another siege would soon be upon the longstop. Stronglox stood up and grabbed her trusty coeurl loudshorn, blowing a warning signal to her fellow goblins. Satisfied with the quicksteps of her fellow gobbies below her post, she quickly turned to the series of cranks and ropes that controlled the reinforced gates leading in to the longstop, pulling and spinning them to bring the solid metal panels back upwards into a locked position.

The “gobbiegates”, as she had affectionately named them, were a contribution of her own to the longstop. The design was of Illuminati origin, repurposed in simple but meaningful ways to protect the longstop from the wide-eyes and whirlycogs of the ones she had once called brothers and sisters. The gates stood tall and starkly menacing in contrast to the jungle around them, the gates attached on both sides by strongwalls of metal and reinforced wood, curved outwards at the very top to inhibit the whizzlepops of their gobtanks. Stronglox and her fellow gobbiekin could take stock of intruders from the safety of the wall tops, while the gates themselves were designed in such a way to make roughtasks of breaching manually.

Despite this, Stronglox could not help to feel the rumblyshakes of nervousness grip her armored body. The last time she had heard the humsing of their wheels was during her narrow escape from their clutches, and it was by no means a happysound to her ears. She recalled just how closely she had come to being captured by her ex-gobbiekin in the hinterlands, and if it were not for the confusedhands of the recently-made-leaderless group she was certain she would be no more. The Illuminati lacked the strong gloves to stop her, she had foolishly thought at the time, and with her blueprints in hand she made quickfeet towards safety. She ran for days, hiding each moonsrise in the scattered rubble of New Sharlaya’s buildings. It was only when she was spotted by Brayflox Alltalks, the selfsame gobbie who had initially given Stronglox lustyeyes for freedom, that she was finally made truly free of Dravania and her gobbiekin’s threats.

Brayflox, as it had turned out, had hastyneeds of her expertise back home. Brayflox was no stranger to the ire of the Illuminati, and her longstop was a common target of their busyplans to get back at her. Their most recent dealings had delivered a near-fatal blow to the gobbietown, and had it not been for the quickmoves of the uplanders her hopes to recover would have deflated completely. An illuminati without a lead gobbie, however, provided the opening she needed to finally rebuild with fresh gobbiehands. It was with this in mind that Brayflox made busydeals with Stronglox to design the defenses of the new longstop, and Stronglox could not have agreed to do so more swiftly. The sooner she was away from the mean tongueflaps and meaner actions of her ex-gobbiekin, she thought, the better things would be.

It was this busydeal with Brayflox that caused Stronglox to now stand proud in anticipation of the incoming gobbietanks, a few of her carefully chosen gobbiekin hiding behind the visible ramparts of the gate in anticipation to put their sneakyplans of defense into action. It wasn’t long before the gobbietanks made their appearance through the thicket of trees and vines: a procession of three tanks and a small attachment of shootytroops, all beset with lustyeyes for destruction. The lead tank hummed and whirled as it approached the gate, its hatch opening to reveal the mask and tongueflaps of an obnoxiously loud gobbie. “Junkbrain thieves! Open longstop gates and receive punishtimes for your betrayal!” Stronglox looked to her gobbiekin behind the wall, still preparing their sneakytools, and responded to stall for time. “Stronglox sees only junkbrains in gobbietanks! Gobbies would do well to backmove to Dravania before they face unhappy neartimes!” The gobbie laughed between the psshoks of its mask, priming the fireboom cannon of his tank. “Double-crossing addlebrain! Gobbies of longstop who break the code must face gobbiefists of the Illuminati!”

Stronglox looked to her gobbiekin once more, getting the readysignals she needed. With the pull of a lever the walls of the gobbiegate lit up with the fizzing light of impending whizzlepops. Stronglox counted the moments until their fuses were far enough along before pulling hard on a lever, the whizzlepops launching from their bombthrows in an arcing v formation towards the tanks. Much to Stronglox’s delight, the first whizzlepop made direct contact with the arrogant gobbie, ejecting him completely from his tank as the rest were pelted with a volley of fireblooms. The ground troops scattered immediately as the remaining procession of gobbietanks tried to backmove to avoid contact unsuccessfully. The smell of gunpowder and ceruleum laid thick in the jungle air as the smoke began to clear from the onceplace of the Illuminati’s troops. When all was said and done, only a single tank and a few gobbies remained.

Stronglox grinned under her mask as she called down to the remaining troops in tauntytongue. “Have gobbiekin had their bellyfills of whizzlepops? Perhaps Stronglox should prepare more for Illuminati gobbiefists...” With the threat uttered, Stronglox nodded to her gobbiekin who proceeded to seemingly light more bombs for throwing. Had the remaining Illuminati not fled at the mere sight of the lit fuses, they may have realized the threat to be a bluff: A sneakyplan by Stronglox to hide the fact that the longstop was still quite underprepared. Stronglox breathed a psshok of relief as the humsing of their remaining tank receded into the calm noise of the jungle. Stronglox looked to her new gobbiekin friends and made happythoughts of a proper celebration for another night free of the Illuminati’s illthoughts.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 1 - Foster - The Unlikely Guest

Storm Private Cassandra stood fast against the weathered stone of the barracks, eyes fixed upon the bridge and the shine of its rusting steel in the midday sun. Each creak of its wooden planks signaling a new jump to alertness, a strange mixture of relief and guilt washing over her with each pair of passing boots; like the waves of the Rhotano Sea dashing the wood and stone from below. Cassandra took a deep breath of the salty sea air and gathered her thoughts. It was ironic, she mused, that she would feel so anxious now about something she had wished for in the passing of so many seasons, and sometimes for all the wrong reasons. She allowed herself to close her eyes, thinking back to the very beginning of her strange duty to both The Maelstrom and the Scions…

She was still but a fresh recruit on the night that they had arrived to petition aid from The Maelstrom. Any greenhorn would have inferred who they were on presentation alone: a pair of twins, adorned in blue and red ribbons, followed in tow by a bloodied adventurer easily the size of two men. She was certainly not alone in gawking upon the surprising arrival of the group, but while the others on duty seemed fit to wave them on and whisper of their long list of deeds Cassandra was focused on another guest among them. Beside the twins was a Kobold of all things, and an extremely small one at that. Cassandra had rarely seen one in person, The Maelstrom command choosing to keep its newer recruits closer to home and the Sahagin warfront. The creature twitched and shuddered as it walked emotionless at the side of the trio, who made their way towards the Storm Commander Rhiki. Cassandra watched with curiosity as her superior seemed to have a very serious exchange with the trio. Alisaie, the one she knew only by ribbon color at that time, knelt down and exchanged some hushed words with the kobold before standing once more and walking away with her companions. Cassandra swore she heard an errant sniffle from the twin, but before she could ponder it any further she was hailed down by the commander.

The commander did not mince words when it came to providing her the orders. The Kobold was to be a guest, permanently if necessary, of The Maelstrom headquarters. A guest that required the utmost of care given his “tempered” nature. Cassandra recalled the word leaving a noticeable look of horror upon her face. “A tempered kobold as a guest? Right here in Limsa?!” If there was any shared concern from the Storm Commander, she certainly did not make it known. Her orders were unfortunately quite clear: Cassandra was expected to tend to the Kobold for as long as it took for the creature to recover. With little choice in the matter, Cassandra swallowed her objections and saluted her superior before making her way in to the barracks to prepare a place for the unlikely guest.

The first months, as she recalled, were the ones she now regretted the most. Her very reason for enlisting was to protect her friends and family from the threats that were all too common to her in her life outside of Aleport. There had been more and more talk of the beast tribes and their peaceful counterparts among the mouths of Limsa’s citizenry, but a tempered kobold? One that had the power to summon the dreaded Titan itself? Cassandra could not come to terms with that idea. She had enlisted to slay such creatures for the good of all, yet here one stood; a tiny, shuddering monument to the pain and suffering so many of so many people that she had known. She grew resentful of her orders, and with each passing day it seemed harder and harder to abide by the oath she took the day she was accepted as a recruit. It certainly was no help to her that some of her fellow comrades shared in her distaste for the creature: how could she possibly protect that which she disliked so much?

Had the turn of events that changed her mind come from within, perhaps she would have now looked back on her feelings with a less brutal and self-deprecating eye. In truth, the one to make her see the folly of her ignorance was no other than that same red-bowed Scion that had brought the kobold to her doorstep in the first place. Every few weeks she would come to check on him in some way, without fail. Occasionally she would bring her fellow Scions, and when they were unavailable she would come alone. As word spread of their campaign in the east, she would even send delegates to survey the creature’s health on her behalf. Cassandra couldn’t make sense of why the creature’s health would be so important to someone as famous and as burdened as a Scion. It was the nagging doubt of this question that prompted her to ask one such scout. It turned out that Ga Bu, as the creature was known, had quite a story behind his afflicted state. She recalled the disbelief she felt when she was told that the small creature had at one point been brave enough to warn the Scions of a summoning, and all for the sake of its…no…his own family. Cassandra felt the rush of self-disappointment return to her cheeks as she recalled it all in her mind.

The answer was not one she had expected, and she remembered the many days it pit her morals against her thoughts. She admired the Scions in the same way any other goodhearted person of Eorzea did, but she had never considered the possibility that a creature so small and different to herself could possibly share their bravery, let alone the desire to see a world undivided by the threat of primals. Alisaie’s respect towards the creature was the proxy by which Cassandra could see the flaws in her own ideals: violence had always beget further violence, and such a peaceful world would not come about by rejecting those she did not understand. In the following seasons Cassandra would quickly warm to Ga Bu, using his name to address him and taking better care of him. She would learn of his place in the 602th order, and in the process realize just how little of the Kobolds way of life was truly known to the Maelstrom. What did they prefer to eat? What would they do for entertainment? What would Ga Bu think of the sights of Limsa Lominsa? Did the Kobolds know of the sea and the world beyond it, even wrapped up as much imperial turmoil as it is? She wanted to know so much about this creature that the Scions admired, and as her desire for knowledge grew so did her closeness to Ga Bu.

Cassandra thought of the day she heard of the events of Ghimlyt Dark, and the subsequent rumors of a collapse in the Scions ranks. By that time Alisaie had become a much more well-known name to the recruits of the barracks, and the news of her mysterious condition found its way quickly to Cassandra’s ears. For a brief period of time, Cassandra grew fearful of Ga Bu’s future. She had known that the Scion was determined to find a cure to his steadfast tempering, but would this be the end of that? Would Ga Bu realize the Scions had stopped checking up on him? Would they recover only for it to be too late? How funny it was to her now in retrospect that she was fully scared for his recovery. She had spent too long with him to see him waste away now in the absence of the realm’s heroes, and she was insistent on making sure that day never came. Her efforts to tend to Ga Bu grew stronger and more encompassing. She would take walks with him to see the many people of Limsa’s markets and docks to boost his spirits; she would purchase foods both exotic and common in all varieties to try and elicit any positive change in his condition. She would even read to him by candlelight on peaceful nights, voice quiet as to not arouse the chiding ridicule of her comrades. She was certain that no Kobold could ever claim to be more nicely treated by an overdweller.

It was many months and moons before positive word of the Scions returned to Cassandra’s ears, and when it did it came with a deep shock to her heart: the Scions had all made a full recovery, and Alisaie was closer than ever to the means of a cure. The commander made her aware of the strange details, the talk of a faraway land and the peace that was given to its afflicted inhabitants. Cassandra had no reason to doubt the Scions, but as the notice of their impending arrival to Limsa was made public, Cassandra couldn’t help but feel anxious. She had grown to love Ga Bu in her time with him like a mother would to a son, and although she had hoped and prayed to the twelve for his recovery she feared it may be the last time she would ever see him. It was for this reason that she stood outside, standing watch for the arrival of the Scions in a pained mixture of hope and fear. She knew not for certain what would come next, but at least she could reminisce on how the seasons had changed her.

Finally, a soft voice seemed to pull her out of her memories. “Excuse me.” Cassandra opened her eyes to spot Alisaie, the Warrior of Light and their Scion friend in tow. Her eyes conveyed the intense confidence to Cassandra, and at once she knew that no fear in her mind could overwhelm their mutual desire to help him. With a knowing nod Cassandra walked back into the barracks to withdraw Ga Bu one more time; to free The Maelstrom of its unlikely guest.

[talesfromtinytonka]

Welcome!

Hello! I have no idea what I’m doing! We’re off to a great start!!

I made this blog mainly to write some FFXIV flavored short stories and fiction! I was encouraged to do so by my good friend Moenwyda (you can find her here: https://twitter.com/moenwyda ), who made me aware of a great writing challenge throughout the month of September. I will be posting my writings for each prompt here as a result!

Thank you for stopping by, and if a particular story really catches your eye I would love to hear your thoughts!